A Letter From Camp
by Dragonfly-Moonlight
Summary: FrUk story, AU. Arthur and Francis send Alfred to a summer camp. He sends a letter home. FACE family
1. A Letter From Camp

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, and I don't profit financially from writing this story.  
Author's Note: Inspired by the song "Hello, Muddah, Hello, Fadduh (A Letter From Camp)" by Allan Sherman.  
Edit: There is an omake going to follow this . . . and I had to change a word in this story. Just to prove a point. ;) You'll know it when you see it.  
Second Edit: I hate it when I don't catch my mistakes . . .

* * *

When they first received the letter from their eldest son, Arthur and Francis weren't too worried. They'd sent Alfred to a summer camp about half a day's drive away from their home, a Camp Granada. According to the camp's guidelines, the children who attended were required to write at least one letter per day, to let the parents know of the activities the child participated in and how much fun they were having at camp. It was also the camp's way of saying to the parents your child is still alive and doing quite fine. (They also expected to hear some exaggeration from their child on why they needed to come and get him before the week was out.)

Sending either their boys off to a summer camp wasn't something Arthur or Francis would normally even consider. Given their hectic schedules – Francis worked two jobs as a baker in his own bakery and a sous chef for a high scale restaurant; Arthur taught three different world history and six different literature courses at the university – they looked forward to summer break. They loved watching Alfred and Matthew play baseball, taking them on trips to visit family and friends, and generally just spending time with their boys. The heavens only knew they could barely do so from the time school started until it ended.

Arthur and Francis weren't the only ones with hectic schedules. Alfred loved to play sports. If given half the chance, he'd sign up for every fall and winter sport the school offered – soccer, football, basketball, volleyball, wrestling – in addition to some of the academic extracurricular activities Arthur and Francis required from their boys. Matthew certainly was no different at times, the younger boy taking a very strong liking towards hockey over basketball. Both were Boy Scouts. The only time Arthur and Francis saw Alfred and Matthew were in the scant early morning hours before school started, in the scant hours after they arrived home from practices for dinner before heading to bed, and when they watched their boys at their games or attended Boy Scout events. The summer meant that they could take at least a little bit of time to unwind and relax from the frantic pace of their lives.

However, this summer had proven to be the exception to the rule of summer camp. Arthur and Francis, for the first time in their lives weren't _ready_ to deal with Alfred and his hyperactive, boisterous personality once the school year ended. They knew it needed channeling – if left to his own devices for entertainment, Alfred could make a hurricane look tame. With most of his friends' families taking vacations right away, it left the twelve-year-old with only his nine-year-old brother as his playmate, and there were times when the two boys could argue worse than Arthur and Francis. It's what the two had been doing almost non-stop once their summer break began, and their bickering had nearly sent Arthur over the edge, who still had a couple of classes left to teach before his break could begin.

Camp Granada had been the solution. The head chef Francis worked for had suggested it upon hearing Francis express his concerns to a fellow sous chef. _He_ intended to send his son there and soon, the man said. The pudgy head chef then handed the Frenchman the brochure and started yelling orders for the rest of the staff.

At first, Francis was hesitant about mentioning it to Arthur, and, when he had, he, too , was hesitant about sending their oldest to a camp. They pored over the brochure's information – a fun place for boys between the ages of eleven and sixteen in the upper part of the state. They offered a variety of sports and games for the boys to play, arts and crafts, horseback riding, archery, and there was a lake where the youngsters could swim, canoe, and generally just have a good time. Despite their apprehensions, it sounded like the best option in order to channel Alfred's energy _and_ to give them a much needed break from their oldest child.

Alfred, though, hadn't been amused or impressed about the prospects of heading to a summer camp. Even though he admitted to feeling bored and restless, he didn't want to go to a place he'd never been before with people he didn't know. Not that he'd been given a vote in the matter, and dropping the boy off had been heart-wrenching for Francis. The entire drive he begged and pleaded with his fathers. His pleas had swayed Matthew, for the nine-year-old joined his older brother in his attempts.

Francis wasn't able to resist when both of his boys begged and pleaded for something. It was true that he spoiled Alfred and Matthew more when they teamed up on something. Perhaps it was why Arthur had chosen to drive them to Granada's campground and not Francis. The younger man certainly possessed a more hardened resolve where Alfred was concerned. They'd reached the camp at the designated time, maybe even a few minutes earlier than anticipated, and, in minutes, the two talked with the camp's counselors and director. Once the tour of Granada was over, they'd said goodbye to Alfred (who made one last ditch effort to convince his fathers to take him home with them), bundled a sobbing Matthew into the car (he'd refused to let go of his older brother), and returned home. It was their hope that Alfred would settle down after they'd left and at least enjoy his stay at the camp.

Francis stared at the envelope with Alfred's handwriting on it for a moment, shoving the rest of the mail under his arm. The bills, he decided, could wait. He wanted to know how his oldest son was faring at Granada. The date at the top of the letter told him Alfred had written it the day after they dropped him off.

_Dear Dad and Papa,_

_The counselor said I had to write you a letter. He said I hafta let you know how much fun I'm having here at camp. Not that camp is much fun. It's raining. Can't have fun when it's raining. They say we will when it stops, but I don't think it's gonna stop. It's like raining cats and dogs. I can hear them meowing and woofing as they bounce off the roof._

_Yesterday, we went hiking. It was fun . . . for a while. This one kid . . . his name is Kiku . . . well, he found this really neat looking plant that was red and green . . . so he picked it and showed it to the counselor. You shoulda seen his face! His eyes got all big and wide, and he told Kiku to drop it, that it was poison ivy and we shouldn't pick stuff like that. After that, hiking wasn't fun because we were so far away from the camp. Kiku has a really bad rash now cuz of it. We also got caught in the rain, too. It was raining so hard, I couldn't even see the counselor. We were really wet!_

_Anyway, they fixed us hot dogs and stuff for dinner. It didn't taste very good (Dad makes better dogs than that). Some were cold and icky and nasty. I didn't want to eat it but I was told that's all there was. One kid . . . his name is Ludwig . . . he got sick after eating them last night. Like really sick. I think someone said the food poisoned him. I could believe it. _

_One of the older kids . . . he's real mean . . . I think his name's Antonio or something like that . . . he keeps telling us that the lake has alligators. Swears up and down that there are and that they'll come out of the water to eat us. He says he saw an alligator chomp down on a kid and swallowed him in one bite last year. I don't want to go near the water. Not when there are alligators in it._

_This camp hasn't been fun at all! I don't know why you sent me here. The one kid in my cabin keeps barfing and complaining that he's really hot. Another kid is missing. His name is Ivan. I think Antonio's alligators got him and we won't ever see him again. At least, that's what Antonio is saying. Some of the counselors are looking for him right now._

_Dad, Papa, I really don't want to stay here anymore. I wanna go home. Please? Come and get me? There's lots of trees here. I'm sure there's a bear out there who wants to eat us. I don't want to be eaten. Antonio says there's ghosts here, too. Why'd you send me? Was it because I was bad? I promise I won't be bad anymore. I promise I won't make any noise. Please, I wanna go home. _

_How's Mattie doing? Does he miss me? I miss him. I miss him a lot. I really do want to go home. It just isn't any fun without him. Please come and get me. Please, please, please?_

_Oh . . . I just looked out the window . . . it's stopped raining. Everyone's going outside . . . going swimming . . . and playing baseball. I love baseball . . . that's so much better than sitting around doing nothing . . ._

_You don't have to come and get me. I'll be okay._

_Lots of love,_

_Alfred _

Francis glanced over at Arthur as he finished reading their son's letter. The Brit's face had turned a bright shade of red. Already, they were halfway to the camp to retrieve Alfred, Arthur driving like a maniac. Fortunately, Matthew was at a friend's house.

"Oh, bloody hell!"


	2. Omake

Author's Notes: I couldn't resist . . . I had to know how the actual story ended . . .

There will be no follow-up to this. Just so everyone knows. There will be another FACE family story coming . . . Be afraid. Be very afraid. I have Dr. Demento in my iTunes collection.

* * *

"Here we go," Arthur murmured. He managed to nudge Alfred's bedroom door open with his foot, taking great care to not jostle the tired and very decidedly _sick_ twelve-year-old. Said child simply lifted his head and glanced around with bleary, reddened, and puffy eyes before resting his head against Arthur's shoulder once more.

Behind the two of them stood Francis, waiting to step into the room. The older man reached around Arthur and flipped on the light, giving him a better view of their son's room and enabling him to walk without too much difficulty. He then danced around Arthur to prepare Alfred's bed for him so he could rest after such a trying misadventure.

After Francis had finished completely reading through Alfred's letter for a first time, Arthur . . . had not been a very happy man. In fact, he'd felt downright furious with his son and his casual, cheeky ending to his letter of how everything at the camp was fine after he'd mentioned potential food poisoning and a missing child. The begging and the pleading . . . it had been enough to drive a stake of worry and guilt into his heart, not to mention abject fear. In his mind, Arthur wondered what kind of place he'd sent his son to and how Francis's boss could recommend the camp so easily and casually. The cheeky "Oh . . . everything's fine now so I'm gonna go have some fun" was so typical of Alfred in some ways, especially _after_ he realized that he'd been mistaken about something, and it was enough for Arthur to pull the car over so he and Francis could head home.

However, Francis prevented him from making a U-turn and heading home. He insisted that they continue on their way to retrieve Alfred. Arthur had wanted to demand why, had almost started to pose the irritated inquiry to his husband, when he saw the older man reading over the letter for a second time . . . well, third for the beginning (he'd stopped reading it long enough to inform Arthur that something wasn't right at the camp and that they needed to retrieve their oldest son _immediately_). Francis's lips were drawn into a tight line, and his blue eyes, which were normally jovial and twinkly, were narrowed in anger.

"_And what does it say that I'm missing?"_ Arthur had asked.

"'_e complained about zhe food,"_ Francis answered._ "Alfred never complains about food . . . unless _you've_ cooked it, and 'e's saying _you _make better 'ot dogs zhan what zhis camp did? Somezhing isn't right."_

Of course, Arthur didn't want to admit it, but Francis had a point. The only time Alfred refused to eat was when he himself had cooked instead of Francis. Anyone else was "okay, but not the same as Papa's", and it was every single time, until the letter had arrived. It didn't help that, as he waited for a car to pass them so they could get back onto the road, the camp had called him. The director asked that he and Francis come and retrieve Alfred. Several of the boys were sick, thanks to potential food poisoning _and_ the fact that many of them had been caught in the rain at the beginning of the week. Their Alfred was one such child, and then it took all Arthur had to not kill someone the moment they arrived at the camp.

For his part, Alfred truly looked _miserable_ when they arrived. He wasn't even outside with the rest of the children as they waited for their parents. Instead, he'd stayed in the cabin he'd been assigned to after arriving, laying in the bed and curled into a ball and the missing Ivan from his letter sitting next to him. If it weren't for the fact his son needed him, Arthur would have lit into the director, the counselors, _and_ the cooks for their lousy care of his son. Instead, he'd pulled his miserable child into his arms, quietly thanked the young Ivan for sitting with his child, and carried Alfred to the car. All the while, Francis walked behind them, fretting.

Now they were home after a trip to the hospital and a double diagnosis of a very bad case of food poisoning and the flu for their son. Arthur was grateful they'd decided to leave Matthew at his friend's house for the evening. He wasn't sure how his youngest would react to his brother being so ill, and the last thing he wanted was for Matthew to become sick as well. Together, he and Francis got Alfred ready for bed and tucked him under the covers.

"I will make some coffee and some soup," Francis murmured. Arthur simply nodded and sat next to their son. It was going to be a long night. He reached over and touched Alfred on his forehead, causing the boy to stir a little.

"Dad?"

"Shhh, it's all right, lad," Arthur murmured. His heart broke at hearing how weak and cracked his son's voice sounded. "You're home now."

"I heard Papa . . ."

"He's going to make some soup."

"I don't wan anything . . ."

"Perhaps later you will," Arthur said in reassurance. "You like Papa's soups."

"Yeah . . . Where's Mattie?"

"He's at a friend's house for the night. You'll get to see him tomorrow. Just rest now, lad."

"Mmmkay . . . Love you, Dad . . ."

Alfred burrowed himself under the covers, his entire face flushed and damp. His son would become better, Arthur was sure, and overcome the effects of the food poisoning and illness. In the meantime, he would be content to care for his sick child. Arthur brushed back his son's hair, allowing a smile to finally touch on his lips at the boy's words.

"Love you, too, Alfred."


End file.
